Chapter thirty-nine
Lily
The living room is flooded with soft afternoon light, and for one stupid hopeful second, I think this is going to be my life.
It’s just me and Miles as usual, the alphas all at work.
We’re on opposite ends of the couch, both under the same blanket that still smells like our whole pack.
He has his sketchbook propped on his knees, and I’ve got Garrett’s tablet open, reading.
The TV is just background noise—a talk show with people bickering about kitchen remodels, but I don’t think either of us is listening.
He’s deep into drawing, and I’ve already figured out what it is. He caught me peeking a little while ago, but not before I got a good look at the lopsided, cross-eyed cat from the amusement park. I’m very proud of myself for noticing.
“You’re drawing Mr. Whiskers,” I say.
He doesn’t even look up. “His name isn’t Mr. Whiskers.”
“It is now,” I tell him.
He snorts. “You named the cat.”
“Someone had to. You won him and then didn’t even give him a name. That’s neglect, you know.”
Miles’s lips twitch, pencil tapping his lower lip. “I won him for you. Which makes him your responsibility. And Mr. Whiskers is a terrible name.”
I grin. “What would you name him, then?”
He thinks for a second. “Something dignified. Bartholomew.”
“Bartholomew the cross-eyed cat,” I repeat, deadpan.
He shrugs. “It’s distinguished.”
“It’s pretentious,” I tell him.
He grins back at me. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I kick him under the blanket. He kicks back. We’re at a classic standoff, both of us pretending the other started it, until we each go back to what we’re doing. For a little while, it’s just the two of us, quiet except for the sound of his pencil and the TV muttering away.
This is what I would miss if I had to leave.
The easy quiet. The nothing afternoons. Our feet tangled together while we argue about a stuffed cat, the rest of the world on mute.
I mean, I’d miss the alphas too. But somewhere along this ride…
I think Miles became my own gravity. I’m not in love with him or anything.
But trying to imagine living a life without ever seeing him again seems bleak.
I’m halfway through my book when the show suddenly cuts out.
There’s a news desk now, a red breaking news banner scrolling across the bottom. Some woman in a blue suit, mouth set tight with practiced concern.
“Breaking news this afternoon. A major bust in what authorities are calling one of the largest underground alpha fighting rings in the state’s history. Twelve arrests have been made in connection to the Hollows-based operation, which investigators say has been running for over a decade.”
I glance at Miles, but he’s still drawing, not even looking up.
“The ring, which allegedly forced alphas to fight in organized bouts for gambling purposes, was taken down with the help of local businessman and philanthropist Brennan Foster, who provided key intelligence to investigators.”
Bile rises in my throat. Brennan’s face is on TV now, all smiles and perfect suit, standing at a podium like he’s some kind of hero. The same man who tried to buy me. Now he’s being thanked for helping the police. The hypocrisy is enough to make me want to throw something.
The screen changes again.
Mugshots. Twelve of them. Mean-looking men, most of them alpha, all lined up in neat little boxes. The anchor starts reading the names, one after the other, each face flashing bigger on the screen for a second.
Then I feel it.
Miles freezes. Every part of him locks up. The soft scratching of his pencil cuts off mid-stroke. His hand hangs in the air. His eyes are on the TV—pupils so wide the brown’s almost gone. His face goes gray. His chest jerks in short, frantic bursts.
“Miles?” I say.
Nothing. He doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t blink, doesn’t even seem to hear me.
The mugshots keep cycling through. I don’t know which one did it. Which face reached out and grabbed him. But it’s there, clear as day. Maybe it’s all of them.
I grab the remote and turn off the TV. The screen goes black and it’s suddenly quiet.
“Miles,” I say again, softer this time. “It’s off. They’re gone.”
He still doesn’t move. He’s so tense his whole body is about to snap.
His grip is loosening now—the pencil falls out of his fingers, rolls onto the floor.
He doesn’t even notice. His breath gets worse.
Shallower. Fast, shallow pants like he’s forgetting how to pull air in properly.
He’s staring at the blank TV, but I don’t think he’s seeing it.
He’s seeing whatever’s always under there, waiting for something like this to drag it up.
I reach out, just briefly touching his arm, and—
“Don’t.”
It’s not a command. It’s broken. Barely a whisper. He jerks away from my hand. Then he curls up, knees to his chest, pulling into himself.
I have never seen Miles try to make himself small. He’s always taking up space, owning every inch of the room. Watching him fold up like that is wrong. It’s not him.
“Okay,” I say, quickly pulling my palm back. “Not touching, I promise. I’m right here, you’re safe.”
No response. Just this awful sound, deep in his chest. A keening whine I’ve never heard from him. Different from the desperate one during sex. This is pure fear. The sound of an omega who can’t fight or run.
I need help. Gabriel. I have to get Gabriel.
I slide off the couch, careful not to make any sudden moves. “I’m going to get help, Miles. I’ll be right back.”
He doesn’t react. The whine goes on, thin and shaky, vibrating in the air like a tuning fork.
I run to my room and grab my phone off the charger. Gabriel’s number is right at the top. I touch his name, my fingers shaking so bad I can barely hit the screen.
He picks up on the second ring. “Lily?”
“Gabriel,” I say. “Something happened.”
I hear the change instantly; all the calm, pack-lead energy burns off him. “What happened? Is Miles hurt?”
“He’s not hurt. We were watching TV and a news story came on about alpha fighters getting arrested. They showed mugshots and he just... froze. He’s not responding to me. He’s making this whine, Gabriel. It doesn’t sound right.”
There’s a pause, maybe half a beat, and when he speaks again it’s clipped and urgent. “Okay. Listen to me. Don’t touch him. Don’t try to hold or comfort him physically. Stay with him and talk to him if you want, but soft. Don’t push him. I’m heading home now. Fifteen minutes, Lily.”
“What’s happening to him?” I ask.
“He’s probably having flashbacks. He must recognize the men on screen. Just stay with him. I’m coming.”
He hangs up. I put the phone down and head back to the living room.
Miles isn’t on the couch anymore. He’s on the floor, wedged between the coffee table and the couch, knees tight to his chest and head buried. He’s rocking, back and forth. Back and forth. The whine is still there, but now it pulses with every rock, raw and unfiltered.
I sit on the couch, not too close. Just enough for him to hear me, not enough to crowd him.
“Miles, you’re okay. You’re at home. It’s just me. Gabriel is coming home. He’s on his way. You’re safe.”
He keeps rocking. The whine gets rougher, almost a growl. His nails are digging into his arms, leaving little crescent marks.
“You’re okay,” I say, my words coming apart because he’s not okay, not even close. “Your alpha is coming—“
The word hits him.
Alpha.
It makes it worse somehow. His head jerks up.
In a blur, he’s on his feet, wild-eyed and panting. The coffee table goes over. His scent is wrong. Sour. Acrid enough to sting. Fear thick enough to taste.
He lunges for the front door.
I don’t even think about it. I just move, blocking his way with both hands up. He’ll put himself in danger if he goes out like this.
“Miles, stop. You can’t go out there. Gabriel is coming. Just wait, okay?”
He shoves me. Hard. Two hands to my chest and I hit the floor, hip first, pain shooting up my side so fast I see white. My teeth slam together.
I look up at him.
Neither of us moves.
We only stare at each other.
Him realizing.
Me understanding.
For a split second, something breaks through. The wild look shifts. The noise he makes isn’t a whine or a growl. It’s the sound of someone realizing they just became the thing they’re most afraid of.
He backs away, hands up. He turns and runs to his own room, the one he never uses. He slams the door so hard the pictures on the wall shake.
I stay on the floor for a while, trying to catch my breath. My hip is on fire, my elbow is throbbing, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s locked in his room and not running down the street barefoot and terrified.
I get myself up. Back to the couch. And I wait.
The house is silent. Whatever’s happening behind that door, it’s quiet. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.
I press my fingers to my hip. Definitely going to bruise. I’ll make sure nobody sees it because Miles will never forgive himself if he knows.
Gabriel’s truck screeches into the driveway a few minutes later. I hear boots on the porch, the front door flying open. He’s in the living room in seconds, eyes scanning everything—the coffee table on its side, me on the couch, the hallway.
“Where is he?”
“His room. He went in about ten minutes ago. It’s been quiet.”
Gabriel’s gaze lands on me. He clocks how I’m sitting, just a beat off. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. Go.”
He points at me. “Stay here. Don’t come down the hallway. Garrett and Cyrus are right behind me.”
He’s gone down the hall, door opening. I hear him talking—soft and careful, more alpha than pack lead. I can’t catch the words.
Then it starts.
Something heavy crashes into a wall. Miles screams. Not words—raw, animal. My skin crawls. Another crash. Gabriel keeps talking. Steady. Low. Calm. Even as the screaming gets worse.
I grip the couch cushion. My fingers hurt from how hard I’m squeezing.